Your Chance to Help Thabeet the UConn Huskies

I’m writing this latest installment from the comfort of my parents’ house. I arrived in New York for the holidays several days ago, and I could not wait to get here. Prior to landing in Newark, I had gone the entire holiday season without hearing this...


Apparently this little holiday gem has yet to venture west of the Delaware Water Gap. Next December I will not rest until everyone I know in Chicago has experienced the joy of singing and clapping while Dominic begins to dance). But now that Christmas has passed, I’ve turned my attention to one of my favorite times of the year: the advent of conference play in college hoops.

As most of you know, I’m an unabashed and avid fanatic of sub-par, underachieving D-I basketball teams. Fortunately, as a Fordham season ticket holder, I’m rarely disappointed in my quest for perpetually putrid basketball. I don’t understand why you’d want to be a faceless and anonymous person in a massive crowd cheering on some powerhouse of a program when you could be one of just a few die-hards who get to sit in a half empty gym and have the whole place hear you when you tell your friends that, in addition to being a horrible official, the ref also beats his wife.

So when I began applying to graduate schools in the Mid-West, I had to do some soul searching. After all, the Mid-West is home to the behemoths of the Big 10 as well as the home of the largest fupa known to man...



Would I sell out my mid-major conference roots to seek out the immediate gratification of one of the several at large bids that the Big-10 pulls in on a yearly basis? Or would I once again cast my lot with a down and out program, hoping to get in on the ground floor before a meteoric rise to national prominence?

In the end, by choosing to go to DePaul, I obviously opted for the latter. I decided that my first trip to an NCAA tourney game should feel like the grand pay-off to a long and arduous journey, not some trivial honor given annually (like the trophy you would get at Grand Slam for having your birthday party there. Even as an adolescent, I was baffled by this. What exactly did the birthday boy achieve? What kind of coddling culture do we live in when kids get trophies just for surviving the year?). Although I should mention that my decision was made significantly less complicated by the rejection letters that I received from each of the Big-10 schools I applied to. Perhaps, through my statement of purpose essay, they could sense my reticence to join their athletic juggernauts. So with my decision made for me by various admissions boards across the region, I prepared myself for some more of the mediocrity I’d grown accustomed to in the Bronx.

I got my first taste of this mediocrity just a few days ago when the Blue Demons took on the Bible-thumping, rapture-loving, Crazy Christians of Liberty University. Our opponents’ dogmatic approach to higher education proved to be fertile ground for the jeers of the DePaul band and student section. After each DePaul basket, members of the band would shout, “Who’s your Messiah now?” The Liberty bench seemed pretty confused by this chant. Perhaps, like me, they were wondering if the band was aware of the fact that St. Vincent de Paul and the Catholics at my school worship the same God as them. And then, in a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, one particularly slovenly member of the band mocked the Flames for their well-known chastity: “You’re entire bench has never been laid,” he shouted. I suppressed the urge to inform him that this was by choice, whereas in his case, it was most likely due to the flatulence resulting from his tuba and his nachos.

Considering the jeers being hurled at the Liberty players, it became abundantly clear that if my school is going to take the next step towards being a force in the Big East, I would have to step up my game in the stands (The Blue Demon barely held on to win in the waning seconds against this inferior opponent despite a barrage of 3's by Golem's little brother).



If I am able to elevate the level of smack talk, hopefully this will result in quality wins against tough Big East opponents. So when #2 ranked UCONN comes to town in January, I want to be ready with a slew of chants far more clever than ones that were broken out during the Liberty game.

For this reason, I am calling upon the faithful readers of JohnClaytonisaRobot to pool their creative efforts and submit chants that will undoubtedly rattle UCONN’s 7’3” Hasheem Thabeet and his teammates (Staff members at JC/Robot like to use a play on words using the center’s name. “Hasheem Can’t Thabeet the Blue Demons,” is a clean and politically correct example. But you are by no means limited to this style, nor are you restricted to clean and politically correct chants. Here’s the UCONN roster for inspiration as well as a link to the women's roster in case you're feeling frisky). After all suggestions are submitted via the comments section on this site, we will put the matter to a vote. The reader who creates the best chant will win an Addidas DePaul athletics tee shirt and a free ticket to a Blue Demons game (airfare not included).

Civil Servants in the City

I received a lot of comments and inquiries concerning my last post detailing the festivities at the local Brauhaus. So I thought I’d regale you with a story regarding another colorful character in my neighborhood:
A trip to my post office always proves to be a harrowing experience, not just because menacing vagrants camp out in the vestibule, but because one of the postal workers needs a cancer kazoo to communicate (I’m fairly certain that “cancer kazoo” isn’t the technical term for the device that one applies to the throat to be able to speak, but I don’t remember covering this topic in AP Bio. I do recall abusing the ether that was intended to render the fruit flies unconscious so we could study their genetic traits, but anything past that experiment is rather foggy. Perhaps there’s a correlation). Whenever I enter the post office and see that this particular civil servant is on duty, I’m immediately unnerved. It’s that not I’m disturbed by the gaping hole in his throat; it’s just that I’m not accustomed to seeing such a person function as a productive member of society. I usually only see cancer kazoo recipients as I walk past a dive at 10 o’clock in the morning on my way to school, and they are standing outside the bar chain smoking cigarettes. So to see this fifty year old man with a bald head and curly mustache (let’s call him Melvin) serving the public is unsettling because I usually just sidle past such people, with my head down. But in this situation, I’m forced to interact with Melvin, and I must do so without staring at the gaping hole in his throat.
My biggest fear is that I will be so mesmerized by the hole that I will not realize that I am staring. Like in a movie or television show when a man is caught staring at a woman’s cleavage and she saucily tells him “I’m up here, buddy,” I’m afraid that Melvin will have to make a similar statement to me in his creepy monotone drone. Fearful of such an embarrassing exchange, I quickly gauge the movement of the line, trying to determine whether I will be served by Melvin or by one of his co-workers.
The first time I visited this post office, it quickly became evident that my worst fear would come to fruition. After waiting a few minutes, my moment to be served was imminent. The only person in front of me in line was a skinny woman balancing a bevy of packages in her spindly arms. I knew that this customer would take quite a bit of time paying the postage for her various packages, and much to my horror Melvin’s colleague called the skinny woman forward, telling her to approach the counter. This left me at the front of the line. As the woman fumbled with her packages, Melvin was wrapping up his business with another customer. Any second now and I would be beckoned. Immediately I became deeply engrossed by the zipper on my jacket, my cuticles, the priority mail envelopes display, the “Most Wanted” posters, and anything else that would divert my attention from Melvin and his gaping hole.
With my head bowed in careful analysis of my shoelaces, I knew that I would be called at any moment. I would soon have to draw upon every fiber of tact that I possess (which admittedly is not a lot) to get through this delicate situation. It was at this point that I heard Melvin say, “Boy am I glad to see you.” My heart skipped a beat. Why on Earth was Melvin glad to see him? Was he being facetious? Could he somehow sense my apprehension? Furthermore, can one be facetious while speaking through a cancer kazoo?
This comment threw me for a complete loop. I had no idea how to react. I had carefully rehearsed in my head what I was going to say so as to make our encounter as brief as possible. I had not prepared a response to such an unexpected pleasantry. As I began to stammer out a reply, I looked up to notice that Melvin was speaking not to me but rather to another female co-worker who had materialized behind the counter. As the women assumed Melvin’s position at the counter, he told her, “I’m about to get me some lunch. What would you like? It’s on me.”
“No thanks,” she replied. “I’m all set.”
“You sure? There must be something I can do for you,” Melvin said in his robot-like, unwavering drawl with a suggestive glance up and down his colleague’s body.
After witnessing this exchange, still waiting beyond the black line, I was dumbfounded. I had to that point never pondered the concept of cancer kazoo recipients having a sex life, much less flirting with their co-workers right in front of me.
The thing that truly made this a bizarre situation was the voice that emanated from Melvin’s device. Though he was obviously trying to be coy, this was a difficult notion to convey when all his words came out in the same flat tone that he used in every other facet of his life. Addressing customers, ordering Chinese food, speaking to his mother on the phone. In each of these instances Melvin employs the same tone and inflection as when he is trying to seduce a colleague. Regrettably, even the volume at which he spoke was the same. With this lack of subtly, the entire post office was privy to his amorous overtures.
I didn’t stick around long enough to see if Melvin made any progress in his courtship. I grabbed my book of stamps and left swiftly, thankful that the co-worker bore the brunt of Melvin’s attention in my stead. But from time to time, as I prepare for a night out on the town, I wonder if I’ll ever run into Melvin as he’s cruising for chicks. His bold advances in the workplace make me completely reconsider my thoughts concerning the cancer kazoo and its effects on those who have one. Now when I pass by those dive bars in the morning, I don’t scurry along. Instead, I take my time, hoping for another fascinating glimpse into their world and a chance to come to a deeper understanding of the kazoo.
Perhaps with time, and repeated trips to post office, he and I can become friends. I’m sure we have a lot to learn from each other. He can teach me how to avoid sexual harassment suits in the workplace (I think it’s clear he’s an expert in this regard given the fact that he still has a job), and I can teach him how to safely huff ether (There are definitely advantages to dating someone in the apothecary business).

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Courtesy of Jizz Himself...

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An Oldie but a Goody...

Danke Schoen Chicago!

After my last post, I received quite a bit of flak from Chicagoland natives (Isn’t that such a stupid name for the region? It makes the city and surrounding suburbs sound like a 3rd rate amusement park, just slightly more entertaining than Rye Playland but not nearly as fun as the life-threatening features of the now defunct Action Park) for my cantankerous appraisal of the city’s dining options. As a result, I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to not focus so much on the negatives and to try to embrace my adopted city. With this newfound optimism, I’ve found that there is an aspect to this city that far outweighs its lack of fine Italian cuisine: despite the fact that it is indeed a sprawling metropolis, Chicago is actually no more than an enormous small town. I say this because each distinct neighborhood has the feel of a quaint town, filled with the quirky, provincial characters that you’d expect to find in such a place (When I say “quaint town”, I’m picturing Stars Hollow, the fictional New England setting for Gilmore Girls with its colorful cast of offbeat characters like Patty, the mischievous dance instructor, and Gypsy, the ill-tempered and ambiguously ethnic auto mechanic. In case you’re keeping score at home that was indeed the second Gilmore Girls reference in as many months).
And in this city of millions, no one is folksier than the lead singer/accordion player of the brass band that plays at the German restaurant around the corner from my place. Last Saturday we had the opportunity to see this guy in action, and it was certainly a sight to behold. To begin with, he looks like a cross between Rod Stewart and Larry Bird. As absurd as it is to see a man with spiky blond hair and a creepy Larry Legend mustache circa 1986 don lederhosen , it’s even weirder to see said man lead a conga line through a restaurant in the middle of a city.
However this conga line was only the tip of the ice berg. After a jubilant lap around the place, Larry arranged the dancers in two lines across from each other on the dance floor. I thought we were about to be treated to some sort of traditional German folk dance; after all Nyack grads can confirm that the Virginia Reel starts with a similar configuration. I expected Larry to instruct the men to promenade their partners, but instead he produced a wooden pole about as long and wide as a rolling pin. We were all a bit bewildered, but this initial confusion quickly turned to astonishment when Larry proceeded to stick the pole between his thighs and hop gingerly across the dance floor. With a furrowed brow, Larry focused intently on his target: the crotch of the unsuspecting young women standing across from him. Clearly this woman was not familiar with this particular perverse German ritual as she stood dumbfounded, the pole now hanging flaccidly between her legs. She thought she’d signed on for an innocuous conga line and suddenly found herself in the starring role of some sick German’s fantasy.
It took Larry a moment to coerce her to hop across the floor and return the favor to the next man in line. This process continued for five minutes as each dancer got the opportunity to be violated in the middle of a restaurant by a complete stranger. I thought I couldn’t be any more scandalized, but somewhere down the line some joker decided to turn around and accept the delivery in the rear. This posed a problem in that to pass it on to the dancer opposite him this man had to provocatively shimmy the pole, with a sly twinkle in his eye, from back to front, giving the illusion that…well you get the idea.
So although I can’t indulge in the food I’d grown accustomed to having in New York, I am thankful that on any given night I could be treated to a rousing rendition of the wooden dick game. I take pleasure in knowing that somewhere Larry is concocting some other twisted ritual, like some kind of modern day Dr. Mengele. And for this perverted zeal, I raise my boot to toast him.

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Everyone's Favorite 7-Foot Twins

Pasta and Prejudice

With Thanksgiving right around the corner (I realize today is Halloween, but I’ve been thoroughly crushed by schoolwork and therefore looking forward to the end of the quarter which happens to coincide with Turkey Day) I’ve been eagerly anticipating my long weekend in New York. While steeped in piles of books at the library, I let my mind wander towards those indulgences I miss most about NY. Chicago, as most of you know, is a fairly cosmopolitan place, and as such, any vice I had in NY can certainly be satiated here. However, there are two glaring exceptions to this rule: Italian food and Irish nachos.

Before moving here, I harbored the foolish notion that any major city in the United States would have a pretty good handle on Italian cuisine. With decent Italian restaurants seemingly on every corner in NY, I figured they were par for the course in any urban center. Therefore it came as a great surprise to me when I realized that my neighborhood does not have a single Italian place. It came as an even greater surprise when, after weeks of searching other neighborhoods on my bike, it was revealed that the closest Italian place is named “Chicken Parmigiana Italian Food Restaurant.” Now I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, but there’s just something about a restaurant named after such a rudimentary dish that doesn’t inspire too much confidence. Shockingly the place was empty when I poked my head in.

In retrospect, there were several indicators along the way that might have clued me in on the fact that I was in a pasta and gravy-challenged city. For one thing, I had to go to school on Columbus Day. Say what you will about the raping and pillaging of Native Americans at the hands of the crew of the Santa Maria, there is just something fundamentally wrong about attending classes on that day.

Another clue came during my first trip to the supermarket. I searched high and low for some ravioli. I nearly tore the store apart before asking for assistance from some guy with a pricing gun. He directed me to aisle 5 and when I arrived I immediately found myself jockeying for position with some aggressive Greek lady who was reaching for the tzatziki sauce. After a pointy elbow to the head and a stink eye from the elderly Grecian, I gathered my bearings and noticed that I had been directed to the “Ethnic Food” aisle. I was stunned to find that my favorite fare had been relegated to second class status. Meanwhile, the neighborhood Poles took their time perusing for pierogis and cabbage, happily pushing their carts down vast aisles that did not require special names. For the first time in my life I experienced the bitter sting of discrimination.

Still, despite these setbacks, I would not be deterred in my pursuit of a single restaurant that could serve me some Italian cuisine. After consulting some locals, I was assured that I would find what I was looking for at a place called “Club Lucky.” Once again the proprietors seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the name, but I was determined to give them a try despite my skepticism. When I arrived, I saw exactly what you’d expect from such a place: velvet ropes, flashing lights, and scantily clad bartenders. I decided at that moment that I could make a killing as an Italian restaurant consultant. With my shockingly bold innovations, I could turn any place into a hopping, authentic Italian place.

To get my consulting firm off the ground, I’ve drawn up a list of do’s and don’ts for prospective clients:

Do: Name an entrée after your mother’s famous meatballs.
Don’t: Blast house music.
Do: Offer guests a comprehensive wine list.
Don’t: Allow security to pat down your clientele prior to entry.
Do: Offer complimentary garlic knots.
Don’t: Deny entry to fat guys just because they aren’t dressed to impress (I happen to think my outfit was just fine).
Do: Sprinkle fresh ground pepper on entrees.
Don’t: Circulate waitresses selling test tube shots (actually that one isn’t a bad idea, provided jager is included in the rack).

Now my failure to indulge in my other vice is equally baffling. I do not understand how restaurants continually mess up my Irish nachos. What is so complicated about putting cheese, scallions, and bacon over some fries? I’ve been able to “Irish up” just about anything else. Irish up my coffee? No problem! Irish up my ale? Of course! Irish up my juice box? Sure thing! Waiters, Bartenders, and elementary school cafeteria ladies at work are all able to successfully Irish up just about anything I want. This city just can’t seem to handle the Irishing of fries.

As a result, in a few weeks time, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, you can find me at Tarantellas or OVI. If you’re in Rockland that night, I don’t want to hear any excuses about the bars being too packed (or about having babies at home, or about resting up for the Turkey Bowl…let the trash talking begin by the way). Come brave the crowds so we can meet up…

Whiskey, Liver Pills, and Drunken Bike Riding - A Scientific Inquiry

(This is the first in a series of installments chronicling my new life in Chicago)

Since I've arrived in Chicago, I've enjoyed the leisurely lifestyle of a kept man. Lori is swiftly climbing the corporate ladder (if a family owned homeopathic apothecary can be called corporate) at work. This affords me the luxury of concentrating on my studies, catching up on my day time television, and meticulously keeping tabs on people I don't care the slightest bit about via Facebook.
However, my life is not all Gilmore Girl re-runs and snarky comments about peoples' Facebook pictures. Occasionally I'm called on to serve as a guinea pig for a new product that just arrived at Lori's store. Usually this entails sampling a new organic shampoo or taking a pill that purports to cleanse a colon. Most of the time I simply give a lukewarm endorsement of the product and turn back to the television. However, last weekend I was introduced to a product I thought I could really get behind. On Saturday, before a night of revelry, Lori asked me to take Livercare, a product that allegedly eliminates hangovers. After giving it some careful consideration, I decided that it was my duty, in the name of science, to get as drunk as humanly possible to put the bold claims of the manufacturer to the test.
I knew for this experiment to work, I needed a control (I'm sure somewhere Mr. Herbert, my 10th grade chemistry teacher, is proud of my sound scientific method. I'm picturing him in his "mole" costume, giving me a nod of approval as he strokes his whiskers). Fortunately I had a control at my disposal. I made Lori take the Livercare as well and instructed her to not drink too much. After all, to gauge the effectiveness of the pills we needed both an intoxicated and sober sample.
So having downed the pills with the last drops of my fifth Jameson, we headed out to a bar to see the band of a friend of a friend. Aside from being too loud (How old am I?), I was annoyed by the lack of any televisions broadcasting Game 2 of the ALCS. However, I needed to put this annoyance aside if I was to determine the potency of these pills. I only felt slightly buzzed from my pre-game cocktails, so I knew I had to step up my drinking. Rather than slouch to the front of the stage with the hipster clientele, I decided to hang back by the bar to down as many PBR tall boys as I could. The Jameson, PBR, and the dulcet sounds of the band were coalescing nicely to create a beautiful drunken state. Surely we would wake in the morning to draw some serious scientific conclusions.
While I successfully conducted my end of the experiment, Lori unfortunately makes for a lousy control. She matched me beer for beer, and every time I tried to furtively slip away to the bar, she would catch my eye and shake her empty can in my direction. Eventually she would prove her inebriation by crashing her bike while stopped at a red light. I can only imagine what the motorists in their cars thought as I was too consumed with thoughts of our failed experiment to extend a hand to help her off the ground.
So I awoke the next morning with a wicked headache. The miracle pill that I longed for for so long proved to be a failure. On the bright side, I still have luxurious chemical free hair and a clean colon.

Uber Poet